


Laughter Lines

by LTDaniells



Series: Zara Davenforth Series [1]
Category: Bastille
Genre: Crime, Detective, F/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LTDaniells/pseuds/LTDaniells
Summary: Zara Davenforth is a mystery - a runaway enigma. But when two men from her past appear in her life ten years on, memories resurface. Love finds it's way into her heart, but when her mysterious past puts her life in danger, the truth comes out - but what is Zara hiding and will she survive it?





	1. Old Faces

"So who is that?" he asked, gingerly pointing over the west side of the bar.  
"Her? She's a wild one. Good luck trying to tame that one... Seriously, man, don't bother - she's messed up and she knows it,"  
"There's something about her,"  
"Don't get yourself tied up in her fairytale, it's not a happy ending," came the reply.

...............................................................

Smoothing my hair, I stared at my reflection. Staring back at me was a woman; a fearsome woman with long black hair that shone a radiant blue underneath the vanity mirror spotlights. I stared down the dark mesh covering barely any of my pale torso, and scowled at the tiny shorts that protected a small minority of my modesty. So much skin. So much on show. It created a small knot of fear deep in my exposed chest.  
I took a sharp intake of breath and quickly let go of the niggling thoughts that teased me about my appearance. I reasoned with my mind that it was ok. It was my body - the provider of my life and the shell that I exist in - and slowly, pride crept it's way into my bones as I turned away from the mirror. As I grabbed my bag, the front door to my house swung open with such a force that it could have easily been mistaken for a police raid. Nevertheless, lo and behold, a tiny four-foot-eleven pixie stood in my living room: pleased at the entrance she had created for herself.  
How did my best friend make as much a racket and disturbance as King Kong?

"The bitch has arrived," she exclaimed, laughing and flipping the long, light-catching strand of bubblegum-pink hair from out of her face. I smiled at her. She was infectious - an airhead, with total disregard for what was happening in the world. That was the thing about Nina Deebrowdy - she could invite you into her world, and you'd become somewhat spellbound by it - then leave suddenly with a soul full of positivity, and dreams as strong as a child.  
"Jesus, those shoes," she whispered, her doll-like eyes growing ever wider at the converse on my feet as if they were morphing into snakes right before her. "What happened to that...what was it? The ''Nina, I'm making an effort tonight'' statement that you declared earlier?"

"It's not for me," I uttered. Nina stayed silent, her arched eyebrows lifted as she glared. I shrugged, glancing at the mirror one last time.

Nina flounced out of the front door. I followed her out of the door, locking it behind me. We were met by the crisp, cold night air of October as we walked down the small slope from my house. We reached the outside of the club, and I watched as the bouncer nodded his head at me and let us both in, despite the ever-growing queue waiting behind us. Sometimes, it helps to look like a stripper Catwoman and have a pastel Tinkerbell sauntering alongside you, I thought.

Once we were inside, I took my place towards the middle of the bar and handed the barmaid, Daisie, my bag to keep safe. As she took my bag, she handed me a double of whiskey and I smiled in gratitude. Already, I noticed that Nina had her flirtatious attitude on full-steam ahead as a young man stood next to her, ogling her long tanned stems. She was relentless. It was a pleasure for her. She wasn't manipulative - just a flirt who relished in knowing what she could make a man say or do. I dragged my eyes away from her and glanced around the club, taking in scenes of rowdy drinkers and women giving the dancefloor their undivided attention. I loathed my shyness and my inability to feel freedom - to enjoy myself and do what I wanted was never an easy task. My mind yelled in volumes, with countless voices, all warning me to keep quiet. Out of sight, like I had done for the last eight years. That's how I had to survive now.

I was on my second glass of whiskey when the door flung open. Four men strolled in. They weren't local. In this part of town, strangers were exceedingly rare. We were on the outskirts of the city - not quite the wasteland, but never the urban dreamland. As I allowed my eyes to drift from their bodies to their faces, a nagging feeling of deja-vu plagued me. I knew a couple of those faces. I knew them...but music then grabbed me by the throat and held my attention - a familiar melody rang in my ears and shivers soared through my curvy body. So many familiar feelings came rushing back, from the faces and the music, and I found myself wandering over to the dancefloor. I lost myself in the sound; the booming bass beat; the words; the voice. It seemed so distant.

The song ended, just as I had begun to unwind, much to my sadness. As I resumed to drinking the whiskey, I felt eyes burning holes into my spine. I turned around to see one of the four men who walked in earlier, staring at me with a confused expression. I raised my eyebrows at him. He started to make his way to the bar so I turned around, acting more interested in my drink than him. I felt him stand to the right of me, yet I still ignored him. I had to remain calm. Stealthy. Keep breathing. Think of a manta. You are safe. He just wants a drink. Keep breathing. You don't know him. Keep breathing. Everything is fine. Keep breathing. Keep breathi---

"Can you take a drink for this lady too?"

I decided I couldn't ignore the man any longer, considering I was the only woman standing next to him. Looking straight at him, the feeling of deja-vu returned like a haunting spirit. He looked so familiar, but unlike anyone that I had met before. He had blue eyes, bright blue, and thick black hair spiked up somewhat lazily. He was tall and had a strong British accent alike my own. He wore a band tee, black skinny jeans and converse and he had minimal stubble creeping across his face. He was seemingly average.

"Am I 'this' lady?" I questioned him, and he nodded shyly.

"I'm Dan," he said, holding out his hand to shake, and I smiled at this gentlemanly gesture. I warmed instantly, my guard unusually taken down.

"Zara Davenforth," I replied, shaking his hand in return. Suddenly, his eyes widened and his face broke out into a huge smile. He watched me for a few moments, as if waiting for something, and then started to speak again.

"Do you know who I am?" he exclaimed.

"You just told me," I narrowed my eyes in hopeless confusion.

"Do you remember me?"

"We only met five minutes ago, Dan,"

"We met nine years ago, Zeddy,"

Zeddy. The nickname made my ears flood white noise, a somewhat deafening sense of panic, and along with that brought floods of memories - repressed memories - sending me into flashbacks that left as quickly as they had appeared.

"Daniel Smith?" I mumbled, biting my lip in anticipation.

"I thought we only met five minutes ago?" he laughed, sipping his drink.


	2. The Past is Not My Friend

When I was twelve years old, my brother died. Details have slowly ebbed away from my memory, and I'd tried my best in the last thirteen years to push it away – what happened has happened and nothing can be done about it. But my brother had made a pact that declared if anything happened to him, his best friend should look after me. It's still unknown why he had thought about that, he was only fifteen when he lost his life, but it had been decided long ago. I barely knew Kyle. I was the little kid trying to follow them around - desperate to get into the trouble that my big brother and his best friend wrapped themselves into - and so I was forced into playing with the kids my own age. Kyle took his role right away, filling in the overprotective and snappy figure of the lad that had left us both in tatters, but then slowly morphed into a friend. He became softer, more compassionate, and looked after me without dictating me. He'd leave me be for long periods at a time when I couldn't find more than two words to mutter to him, but still checked on me every second he could. He carefully brought me into his world, into the world of a seventeen-year-old man, but remained watchful for my youth.

When I was fourteen, Kyle took me to my first ever party. I wasn't much of a party girl at that age; I hated the taste of alcohol and I hated dancing in front of people. I hated being with other people in general. Puberty and hormones made me collapse into myself and not wanting any contact with people who weren't living inside my head. 

"Please can we just leave Kyle," I whined softly, my eyes trailing around the crazy scenes of a London flat being trashed in booze, screaming and dancing.

"I want you to meet someone, Zeddy," he pleaded. I remember huffing and puffing in annoyance when Kyle turned around and shouted over to a tall boy of around sixteen. He shuffled over, in some kind of bizarre fashion which spoke teen awkwardness and a sense of dread for he was about to enter a social situation. I warmed to him straight away.

"I love your shirt," He said to me, somewhat shyly as he approached, and I glanced down.

"Twin Peaks!" I said, smiling, and he nodded in enthusiasm, his eyes and face seemingly alight as he began to talk a little louder.

Kyle seemed pleased as the man introduced himself and struck up a conversation about David Lynch, and if the murderer of Twin Peaks should have ever been revealed. After a few minutes, Kyle slowly backed away, and made way to the other side of the room with a can in his hand, clinking it against one of his friend's drinks. I think his name was Woody. I can't remember anymore.

The man was called Dan. Dan Smith. He loved literature and music, and was a huge film buff. His hair was reminiscent of Eraserhead, and his whole exterior seemed lanky and a little slouchy, consisting of a slightly oversized t-shirt; some faded blue jeans and white converse with the laces frayed with stains of beer and mud. He seemed an oddball, in comparison to the polished up males that prowled around the party, but he held my attention greatly. For once, I enjoyed talking. For once, I could string together more than a toddler's sentence. For once, I felt lifted up.

Kyle ebbed away from me within a year - going away to university and finding his feet in the world, trusting Dan to guide me into finding my own feet too. Then it was time for Dan to leave when I was sixteen, away to study English Literature, and I found another soul to lean on within a few months.

Then I became a runaway, last seen in London when I was eighteen. I bought a plane ticket with a shaking hand, and never dared to turn my head back to find the two men I loved again.

Until now.


	3. I Felt My Temper Snap

"God, you've grown up!" A voice, all too familiar, rang in my right ear. I turned slightly and was met by Kyle's face, now mature and aged gracefully with facial hair. No amount of maturity and manliness could hide the boy I knew - his childish grin was still there. Shining through his nearing thirties body was the young lad who I once knew a long time ago. I felt a small lump burn my throat, and time seemed to freeze. I relished in the moment; the two men on either side of me; as I felt my hard exterior crumble away under the glow of their stares - unveiling the girl that I once was. The carefree soul, the quietly traumatized but smiling teen that I had been before. But then, she was gone and the woman who I'd become took over again. My walls built back up around me, but not fully structured - tiny cracks of my childish nature from before I ran away gleamed through. They dared me to break down the walls for these men. I couldn't...it had been too long.

The other two strangers appeared behind me, and the four men enclosed me against the bar. Both men introduced themselves. One was tall, beefy and had a beard. He introduced himself as Will. The other had long hair, a somewhat dark copper colour, and had a cheeky smile. He introduced himself as Woody, and he shook my hand. I smiled at them, attempting to feel at ease, and Woody smiled back. Will stared with a stony glare, confusion laced with bewilderment dancing in his eyes. I watched intently, reading his emotions. He suddenly blinked, as if to snap out of a trance, and trailed his attention down to his drink - the golden, bubbling beverage becoming more and more interesting in the plastic glass as a few minutes slowly edged by.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I asked Dan. There was so much that had been left unsaid, so many things that were never explained, and I tried to narrowly creep past them with small talk. I was limited in social skills.

"Tour! Bastille's taking off a little bit!" He smiled, and I softly smiled back, nodding in interest. 

"Bastille?"

"We're all in a band," Dan explained.

"I haven't been keeping up much with the world, I'm sorry. I'm glad you're doing well," I apologised sincerely, my voice suddenly becoming very quiet in the bar. Kyle grinned broadly and gently wrapped his arm around my shoulder. He squeezed me into him, as tenderly as he could, as if I were a fragile flower - no more than dust, ready to slip through his fingers at any moment. Like the most precious grains of sand.

"I never stopped worrying about you," He mumbled against my hair, and I lifted my head up.

"Let's not talk about it now,"

"You've become so...distant,"

"I had to leave. One day, you will understand,"

I turned to move, to find Nina - I wanted to go home. It was all becoming too much. A warm hand grasped mine, a feeling that seemed like a memory, and I met Dan's eyes. They were still so stormy, so difficult to retrieve any emotion from. I never knew what that boy was thinking - I didn't know what he was thinking as a man, either. I saw him in a different way. Instead of staring at the awkward teenager who used to stand before my eyes, I was now staring at a man. A fully-grown man, with slight stubble creeping across his chin and jawline. Tiny little freckles crossing his nose. His hair: still the Eraserhead quiff that he always sported...although now, much more forgiving to his appearance. I was enticed by him. I knew his soul, I knew him inside out, but I didn't quite recognise the body before me. My chest swelled, and my breathing became more rapid as we searched each other's faces, noticing the changes. We were watching each other intently, trying to figure out our emotions. My gaze trailed everywhere, until stopping at his lips.

Then my walls became secure again, boarding up around me. I had to go. 

My lungs burned as my legs kicked the pavement, taking me home. Taking me to safety. Taking me to...nothing. It was only until I was about to unlock my house that I heard the footsteps behind me, and I turned to see who else had followed me to nothing.

"Why do you run, Zara?" Dan asked. Intensity radiated from me. I leaned backwards, resting my spine on my front door.

"Because I have to," 

"You've never had to run,"

"I will always have to run. There will be a time, one day, when running will be the only thing I can do. I feel it in my bones. I feel it every day. Something will happen. I have to keep running,"

"You're just a shell,"

"A hardened shell,"

"Let me see where you are. Let me see this," He pointed towards the small house.

"I can't. I can't let you in,"

"Sure you can," He chuckled purely. His hand grasped mine, sending a burning sensation through every vein in my wrist, and guided the key in my hand to the lock on my door. He twisted my wrist, hearing the door click open, then pulled the key out of the lock. All the while, he stared straight at me.

"I barely know who you are anymore, Zara. But I still love you,"


	4. Nine Years

The golden hue of sunrise settled into the windows of my home, flooding my room with a forgiving light. I was curled up on my window seat, a huge shirt covering my pale limbs as I watched the world wake up. My home sat at the top of a small grassy hill, but overlooked the city from the outskirts where I resided. Fascination always filled my head as I watched the same scene unfurl before my eyes as it did every morning; people beginning their daily routines in a hustling and bustling fashion. Mr. Blue Tie (as I had nicknamed him) ran to his car, spilling his coffee as he went, like he did every morning. Mrs. Blue Tie would always come out to bring him his briefcase. He never remembered his briefcase.

When the sun had risen fully, and the daylight burned away all the mystery of the golden morning, I left my perch of the window and placed pods in the coffee machine. My mind wandered back to last night - how I left Dan after what he said, running into my home and slamming the door. I didn't want to know anything.

He couldn't have loved me. He couldn't still love me. We were kids, just kids - we never fell in love. I would never fall in love now. Love was just some kind of mockery of a connection, which always ended badly, and I couldn't distract myself from my survival mission by being grazed in emotions. My guard would have been broken down. I could lose everything that I have.

I had nothing, but to me - that was something. My small slice of nothing atop of this hill, watching others rush around to work to keep their small slice of something. They had families, stress, feelings...even love - they had a life. They had freedom. I had a ventilator as a body with a broken and subdued mind. I had just existed. I just exist.

A subtle knock flickered on my front door. 

My blood froze, along with my body, as my sandpaper mouth swung open in worry. I stared down the door, waiting for a cue to run, to set my escape plan in motion.

"Zeddy?"

Unlocking the door, Dan's face peered into my home and locked onto my stance: rabbit in headlights. 

"You don't have to run," He simply mumbled. He walked into my home, as if walking on a minefield, and stopped just in front of me - perhaps a mere foot away. "I'm sorry," was all he stated.

I surprised myself for, in the next few moments, I reached out to him. I just wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel him closer to me. 

The feeling of his body pressed against mine stirred something, and I leaned into him even more.

"I didn't expect you to come near me," Dan whispered into my hair, as his fingertips rubbed slowly into my shoulder blades. I didn't reply, but relished within the feeling of human touch. It had been so long. "I meant it though, Zara. I did love you then. I still do now,"

"Don't say stupid things," I muttered, and he pushed me away from his chest. I wanted to cry out at the lack of contact.

"It's not stupid,"

"Yes, it is. I know nothing of love. I don't want to love,"

"You don't have to, but for the last nine years I've wanted to tell you," He sighed, running his right hand through his messy quiff. "Whatever the hell happened to you? You've become so closed-up. How did you survive here for so long, alone? How do you live like this? Do you still not sleep much? Do you still have the nightmares?"

"Don't fucking mention that, Daniel,"

"You're so cold,"

"I know,"

"Zara, it's me. It's Dan. It's your best friend. It's the boy that looked after you. I fucking worshipped you. I hated being at university and, when I came back two weeks later, you were gone. No warning. I tried to file you as missing but you were sixteen with no legal guardian. They said no. I barely slept. Then I had word that you were in America somewhere - I hired a private detective. Do you not care?"

I stayed quiet, for I did care. I cared far too much. I could feel something in my gut, a feeling I hadn't felt in nine years, niggling away. I couldn't quite place what is what - guilt? 

"Please leave," I choked out, emotions rummaging through my heart. I didn't need this.

"You disappeared," Dan whispered, his head lowered in defeat as his feet shuffled towards the front door, slowly leaving my sight before the door fully cut away my vision of him. The last thing I saw were the laces on his shoes, trailing on the floor, frayed and printed in mud and some kind of copper liquid. It brought something back.

"I loved you too," I whispered, lost in the thought of my life in London. He never heard me.


End file.
